


you're everything i need (and more)

by portraitofemmy



Series: measure in love [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cottage Fic, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Established Relationship, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Bondage, Mosaic Timeline, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 15:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: “Oh, baby,” Eliot murmurs, pushing up to sit on his heels straddling Q, and he barely has to tut to call for telekinesis. Reaching out with magic, it’s easy as breathing curl around Quentin’s wrists, pull them up. “I don’t need rope to keep you where I want you.”A couple years into the Mosaic Timeline, and the boys find some new ways to occupy their time.





	you're everything i need (and more)

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically part of the [measure in love](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366483) verse, but it can be read on it's own. It takes place after Quentin and Eliot start hooking up, but before Arielle enters the picture.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so I apology for any mistakes.

They buy rope to build trellises, in the hopes of encouraging the little gardens’ cucumber and tomato crop to actually rippen before they start to rot this summer. It’s a good set up, if what Eliot remembers about these things is true. It could be hit or miss, honestly, either way, but they’ll find out. They’ll adjust, if they need too. The trellises are just wooden frames with the sturdy, weatherproof rope tied in a grid across them, but he’s optimistic.

And they end up having some rope left over.

“Any idea what to do with this?” Eliot asks, holding up the couple loops of rope to Q, who’s sitting back on his heels, shining with sweat from the labor of stringing up the trellis. 

He looks contemplative for a heartbeat, and then a wicked grin spreads across his face. “I have some thoughts,” he says, voice mild but the look in his eyes makes Eliot’s heartbeat pick up in response.

“I mean _besides_ that,” Eliot huffs, whacking Quentin in the thigh with the rope. Which is absolutely not helping the point at all, and Eliot bites his lip. “Or after, maybe.”

After, as it turns out. 

“Really though,” Eliot asks, once they’ve got sweat cooling on their skin and Quentin’s got rope burn on his wrists and the tender backs of his knees. It’s his own fault, he just couldn’t stop _squirming_...

“Really what?” Quentin prompts, and Eliot blinks, hand stilling where he’d been tracing it over the soft delicate skin on the inside of Quentin’s thigh.

“We should do something with the rope besides use if for sex,” Eliot points out, a little mournful, because damn if it hadn’t been some good fucking sex– Quentin’s wrists bound over his head, knees pulled up to his chest, tied with rope and looped over the bar in the window, so every time his hands tugged he pulled on his own knees. How he’d fucking squirmed the whole time, straining back on Eliot’s mouth as he took his time, licked and licked and licked softly over Quentin’s needy little hole until he was _begging_–

“You sure about that?” Quentin whispers, flexing the muscle of his thigh slotted between Eliot’s legs in the post-coital cuddle pile, rubbing up against where Eliot’s dick is twitching at the fucking _memory_ of Quentin spread out and trussed up for him.

“Yes,” Eliot growls, leveraging himself up so he can roll them over, pin Quentin to the bed. Quentin, who doesn’t resist even a little, looks extremely pleased with himself. Cat-that-got-the-cream smirk, in fact, all over his damn face. “Because if we _don’t,_ we’re never going to finish this damn quest. Because I’m going to keep you in this bed for _the rest of time_.”

“Keep me,” Quentin whispers, soft and open, and Eliot’s heart _aches_ because–

_Oh, would that I could. _To just abandon the quest and spend eternity like this, in this little bubble of bright, ecstatic happiness, where Quentin wants to be kept because– Because Eliot’s the best option he’s got.

_I will love you and I will let you go_, he reminds himself, looking down at Quentin’s soft, beautiful face. There’s a slight furrow in his brow, like he’s reading whatever just passed across Eliot’s face and trying to make sense of it, and Eliot doesn’t want him overthinking this. They promised each other that. Overthink nothing but the puzzle. He kisses him instead, and Quentin melts into it, so happy to be kissed.

“So no sex rope,” he repeats, when Eliot pulls away, a little breathless.

“No sex rope,” Eliot agrees, reaching out to rub this thumb against the chaffed skin on Quentin’s wrists.

“... maybe just one more time, before we find something else to do with it.”

Eliot starts to giggle, unable to help himself. “There will be more rope, Quentin.”

“Maybe we could _buy_ sex rope,” Quentin murmurs, all sultry, like he’s fucking– trying to seduce Eliot, who’s already naked and plastered all over his bare little body. 

“You’re missing the part–” he starts, sucking Quentin’s lower lip into his mouth “–where I–” biting softly at his lip until Quentin’s spine arches “–need to do things–” licking out, dragging his tongue across the sweet open part of Quentin’s lips “–other than _fuck you._”

“Okay, but like– why, though?” Quentin breathes, and Eliot groans, sticks his tongue in Quentin’s mouth so he’ll stop _saying things like that_.

“We haven’t done any patterns today,” he mutters, as Quentin reaches down to get his hands on Eliot’s ass. They haven’t, between the trellises and the ambitious bondage, it’s past midday and they haven’t–

“We’ll work through the night,” Quentin breathes, squirming his hot, solid, dense little body up against Eliot’s. “Please– Just– What if you tie my hands to the window and I ride you?” Eliot groans, teeth sinking into Quentin’s neck a little as the shivers of _want_ pass through him. 

“You’re the _worst_,” he grumbles, and reaches for the ropes. 

They do work into the night. It’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last, but Eliot actually– doesn’t really mind. It’s possible that it’s just the hormone soup of two orgasms and whatever fucking comes with a top-space for him, but he’s happy to share work with Q. Happy to share space with him. Quentin’s loose and relaxed, even though he must be feeling at least some ache from getting fucked. But it doesn’t seem to be bothering him, and Eliot takes pride in being a good lay, okay? That means being able to give it good and well, and it means being able to take care after. The rope burn is already starting to fade from Quentin’s skin.

Eliot kind of misses it.

“You should sing,” Quentin prompts, after a couple hours of work in companionable silence, passing Eliot tiles in the encroaching darkness. 

“What do you want me to sing?” Eliot asks, humoring him, because he never minds singing and it’s not like they’ve got any other music to occupy them.

“I don’t know,” Quentin shrugs, stacking up a couple orange tiles and passing them over. “Something that makes you happy.”

_That makes me happy_. Fuck, what made him happy? 

“_When the sun shines, we shine together, told you I'll be here forever, said I'll always be your friend, took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end. Now that it's raining more than ever, know that we'll still have each other. You can stand under my umbrella, you can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh_.” Eliot sings, cheesing it up, and true to form Quentin starts laughing.

“Dick,” he accuses, pushing at Eliot’s chest. Eliot lets himself go limp, sprawled out on the half completed mosaic. _You make me happy_, Eliot thinks to himself, looking at Quentin’s silhouette halo’d in the light from their ever-burning torches. It had been a night just like this when Quentin had kissed him for the first time, all resolve and resignation, ready to be turned down like Eliot would ever–

“Maybe Rihanna makes me happy,” Eliot sighs, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Listen, I know you’re a Pop Princess but–”

“Oh, I absolutely am.”

“– I always thought you were more of a Beyoncé.”

“You know what, I’ll take that,” Eliot agrees, crunching up so he can steal a kiss because... because Quentin’s lovely and because there’s always the chance that this pattern could be it and Eliot needs to make the most of his opportunities for kisses and–

And because he wants to. 

“Mmmm,” Quentin hums, eyes lingering closed for a moment as Eliot pulls away, blinking open with a soft smile. “Puzzle, El.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot agrees, sighing, turning back to resume placing orange tiles. A song worms its way into his brain, though, and he finds himself humming as he lays out tiles.

_“Remember those walls I built? Well, baby they're tumbling down, and they didn't even put up a fight, they didn't even make a sound. I found a way to let you in, but I never really had a doubt. Standing in the light of your halo, I got my angel now.”_

He can feel Quentin’s eyes on him, tries not to feel too transparent as Q sits back on his heels to listen as Eliot sings. He’s quiet, like he’s afraid if he speaks it might break the moment, and fuck it might. Eliot lets the song flow out of him without thinking too much, because overthinking is for the puzzle, damnit.

_“Everywhere I'm looking now I'm surrounded by your embrace. Baby, I can see your halo, you know you're my saving grace. You're everything I need and more, it's written all over your face. Baby, I can feel your halo, pray it won't fade away.”_

Quentin joins him for the chorus, voice soft and weak and a little off key but it blends smoothly enough with Eliot’s. _“I can see your halo, halo, halo. I can feel your halo, halo, halo. I can see your halo, halo...”_

It’s well into past midnight before they finish the pattern. Quentin’s been yawning and half-asleep for the last hour, like he’s not an insomiac who can’t fucking sleep through the night half the time anyway. But they place the last tile together, Quentin wrapped in their quilt like a sleepy burrito, and when nothing happens, he sprawls out on top of the tiles.

“Sleep,” he mutters to Eliot, and Eliot knows logically that they have a bed literally 40 paces and a door away, but– 

Sleeping under the stars sounds nice honestly.

He calls a pillow and blanket out to them with telekinesis, nudges Quentin’s limp form until he sits up enough to tug his shoes off and let Eliot spread the thick knitted blanket out on the hard tiles. Summer is edging it’s way into their little clearing, but the nights are still chilly. Cool enough that they can curl up under the quilt, tangled together in the little bubble of warmth and safety.

“You smell nice,” Quentin murmurs, mostly asleep, nose tucked into the curve of Eliot’s neck, and Eliot’s heart _aches_. He probably smells like sex and sweat and the lye soap they use to wash their clothes, honestly. It’s what Quentin smells like, when Eliot tips his face down into Q’s hair, sex and soap and boy, an ineffable Quentin smell. 

He’s asleep within moments, but Eliot stays awake for a while longer, petting his fingers over the fading ropeburn lines on Quentin’s wrist and trying not to think.

But they do have some extra rope, and they _can’t_ keep it as sex rope, because honestly, Eliot does not have that kind of willpower. The clothesline isn’t in need of re-stringing yet, and they don’t have posts or fences to bind with rope.

“I have an idea,” Quentin says, the next afternoon, and when Eliot opens his mouth to protest, “It’s not sex, okay, I get the message.”

Which is how they end up with a rope swing down by the river.

The rope isn’t– exactly the best kind of rope for something of this nature. But they’re magicians, and once Eliot understands where Q is going with this, he has some ideas about how they can magically sure up and enlarge the rope. It takes a couple days, a side project that must by nature come second to the mosaic, but it’s a fun task and a more interesting challenge than the endless mendings and levitations and meltings that the local village needs in the way of magic.

In the end, they have a pretty sturdy rope swing, just in time for the days to take a sharp turn from warm to _hot_ as summer barrels into them. Seasons are milder in Fillory than they are in other places Eliot’s lived in his life, enough that he’s not seriously considering abandoning the quest in favor of returning to a place with air conditioning. But he can’t deny the appeal of being able to run down to the river after a day in the sun and just _play_ for a little bit.

The water is clear and cool, and with the rope tied out on a long tree branch they can swing out into where it’s deep enough that there’s not much current. It’s a relief, after a hard day’s work, to strip down to their skin and fall into the cool water. 

The little bend in the river near the path back to the mosaic has several smooth, flat stones on the bank near their new rope swing. Eliot sprawls out on one of the rocks when he’s tired of the swoop-and-splash of the swing, watching Quentin scramble up the bank and take a hold of the rope. He whoops out in simple joy, flying into the water with a spray and Eliot laughs, feeling lazy in the sunlight. 

“This was the best idea,” Quentin says, a little out of breath when he slogs up onto the rocks some time later. He collapses down in a sprawl on the warm, sun-drenched rock, feet knocking into Eliot’s thigh.

He seems shameless, unembarrassed by his nakedness in a way Eliot knows he wouldn’t be so brazen about if there were any people anywhere in sight. But at some point Eliot stopped being people, in matters like these. It’s not even– not even that Quentin’s comfortable in the way he had thought Quentin was comfortable with him, that first year on the mosaic. He’d been so sure then that Quentin just trusted him enough and was secure in himself enough that he didn’t feel the need to no-homo at Eliot, and that– that had felt like a gift in and of itself. After a lifetime of shifty looks in locker rooms, Eliot had felt pretty good about the idea of having a straight male friend who didn’t feel threatened by him. 

And who slept him while fucked up on emotion magic and alcohol.

It’s possible Eliot had been a little narrow-sighted about this particular subject. Because he couldn’t deny that Q wanted him, not after, fuck, after over a year sleeping together. Whatever choices Quentin might make about romantic partners when he had the freedom to choose... he had the capacity to want Eliot, the same way Eliot wanted him.

Quentin could want him enough that this... casual display of nudity, it isn’t just comfort. Not _just_, though comfort is an undeniable facet of it. But it is also an invitation to _look_.

So Eliot does.

And the thing is... the thing is, Quentin is _lovely_. He’s quietly and unassumingly masculine, in the sturdiness of his wrists and ankles, the dark hair on his forearms and calves and crawling up the inside of his thighs. Manual labor has left him lean and lightly muscled in his arms and back. The delicate curve of his throat gives into the solid structure of his collarbones and shoulders, thin chest lightly haired and rosey pink nipples pebbled from the cool water. His belly is a soft, ever so slightly concave thing where he’s stretched out on the rock, with a light trial of hair down from his navel, down to where it thickens the base of his cock. Soft and resting against his thigh, Eliot can’t help but feel a twinge of hunger looking at Quentin’s cock, the two-fold feeling of arousal that is both physical and mental. That knowledge that this wanting is aggressively, subversively queer, and Eliot _likes that_. 

“I’d say ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer’ but...”

“Shut up. I’m composing poetry about the architecture of your ribs in my mind.”

Quentin snorts, inelegant and graceless, whole unsexy and very, very cute. “Then why are you staring directly at my dick?”

“I got distracted.” Eliot shrugs lazily, a little smile on his lips, pushing up to sit forward so he can reach out, trail his fingers along the soft skin on Q’s belly. The muscles jump under his fingers, just a little, startled and fluttery at the touch. “I like looking at you,” he admits, and it’s not– there’s so many other things he _can’t_ say, can’t handle existing in the physical space between them, but this. They could survive this. 

Quentin squirms a little, like he can’t quite admit that he likes being looked at, if only by– by Eliot, with whom shyness has ceased to exist. God, what did they possible have left to be shy about anymore? Q’s hand reaches out, catching on the wrist of Eliot’s exploring hand. His palm cups around Eliot’s forearm, sturdy bones where Eliot’s are delicate, fluid wrists that lent themselves to camp so well. Tiny shivers chase up Eliot’s spine as Quentin’s palm drags upwards, across the sensitive skin of his inner elbow, up to press his thumb against Eliot’s bicep. 

“High king in your blood,” Quentin murmurs, almost absently, as he _looks_ right back, eyes dragging across Eliot’s chest, his neck, up over his face. “God, we all should have known.”

“I’m trying not to draw a correlation between inbreeding in the midwest and in royal families,” Eliot jokes, lightly, because fuck. _Fuck_, being looked at is hard. Being _seen_ is hard.

“No, I just meant– You’re fucking regal, El. All of you.” Quentin’s palm slide up across the front of his shoulder, palm flattening on his chest before he lifted away to tap the cleft in Eliot’s chin. _Butt-chin_, he’d been told as a teenager, but now.... He feels remade under Quentin’s hands, all the roles, the armor he’s worn before striped away. Not the dandy party boy, not the reckless king–

Just a man.

_This is something I could really fuck up._

Quentin’s hand falls to rest on Eliot’s thigh, fingers half curled against the sensitive skin there, there’s a beat, a thrum of arousal. He doesn’t know what to do with it, all of a sudden, feels unmoored in this delicate space between _known_ and _knowing_. But Quentin is–

He’s Quentin. He’s unassuming, and generous, kind when his brittle edges aren’t running roughshod over them both. He just lays there, thumb brushing over that private skin, letting his eyes fall shut, turning his face into the sun like a sunflower. Like he’ll let the moment fizzle and die if it’s what Eliot needs, content to be close. To touch, in this simple, familiar way that is devastating in it’s intimacy. 

Thoughtlessly, because if he thinks about it he might choke, Eliot rearranges himself on the rock, stretching out to prop up over Quentin’s lean, lovely little body. A small smile flickers around Quentin’s lips as their skin slides together, and Eliot hums, leaning down until he can trail his nose along the curve of Q’s jaw. The skin on his neck tastes like fresh clear water when Eliot kisses it, a soft suckling thing, tongue darting out. 

Trailing kisses down to his collarbones, Eliot leverages himself up until he’s hovering over Q, who’s arching up ever so slightly everytime Eliot pulls back. Everything about him is an open book, needy and eager, soft little sounds falling out of his mouth. _Fuck_, Eliot loves those sounds. 

“_El_,” Quentin breathes, hands coming up to cup the sides of Eliot’s ribs, fluttery and restless because Quentin never fucking knows what to do with his hands during sex. Sex, which they’re well on their way towards, here, now, on this rock, as Eliot pushes up to kiss him. Q meets him half-way there, face tilting up off the rock, arching up towards Eliot like he wants it, like he _needs_ it. His mouth is a sweet, soft, yielding thing, and Eliot pushes into him hungrily. Because _fuck_, Q’s not the only one who needs it. The slow, hot slide, between them as Eliot fucks his tongue into Quentin’s sweet mouth, the drag of their bare bodies together– 

Fuck.

“I could eat you alive,” Eliot groans, senseless and panting, tipping his forehead down onto Quentin’s, dragging them together. 

“Too bad we turned our sex rope into a swing,” Quentin sighs, and Eliot feels a curl of wickness unspool in him.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, pushing up to sit on his heels straddling Q, and he barely has to tut to call for telekinesis. Reaching out with magic, it’s easy as breathing curl around Quentin’s wrists, pull them up. “I don’t need rope to keep you where I want you.”

“Oh, _fuck_,” Quentin whines, tugging fruitlessly at the invisible bonds holding him in place. He twists a little, straining to look up at his hands, held magically to the rock. “How long can you keep that up?”

“As long as I’m concentrating on it,” Eliot replies, taking the opportunity to drag both of his thumbs over the pebbled little points of Quentin’s nipples. He jerks under Eliot’s hands, held fast to the rock, eyes going dark. “I– have to be careful with it. It’s easy to lose control of. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“We don’t have to,” Q rushes out, but he’s– still squirming, like he can’t stop testing the resistance, can’t stop reminding himself that he _can’t_ move. Straddled over him like this, Eliot has a front row seat to watch the way his cock twitches as it fills, turned on by _Eliot_. By all the things Eliot can do to him. All the things he _trusts_ Eliot to do.

“No,” Eliot muses, trailing a single fingertip across Q’s cock until he starts to squirm again. “I want to. I just– I don’t think I can focus on that _and_ my dick. So, how about this: I hold you still, and I get to touch you. As much as I want. Any way that I want. Wind you up, and you don’t come until I say you can. Then we deal with me.”

“Then you can– fuck my mouth,” Quentin babbles, licking his pretty pink lips, and it’d be funny if it wasn’t so hot, the eagerness with Quentin sucked dick. “Hold my wrists down with your hands– and–”

“_Fuck_,” Eliot groans, leaning down to kiss Quentin silent before his brain melts right out of his head at the thought. “Yeah, baby I think we could make that happen.”

The words are breathed against Quetin’s lips, and it makes him shiver, strain up after Eliot’s mouth. Except he can’t go far, not held fast as he is by Eliot’s magic. Which is–

It makes Eliot shiver, something hot and powerful and just a little bit afraid curling in his stomach. But Quentin trusts him and wants this and Eliot _wants it so much_. A careful hold on the power in his mind is enough, the rest of Eliot’s focus sinks down into his hands on Quentin’s skin. Rubbing his pretty pink nipples, touching the tender base of his throat where sweat collects, sliding fingers down every rib, palm across the span of his stomach. Eliot trails fingertips along Quentin’s cock, where it’s hard now, leaking just a little at the tip.

“You like this,” Eliot states, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world, like Quentin hasn’t spent pretty much every sexual encounter they’ve had in the last two weeks begging to be tied up. Held down. _Kept safe_.

“You– _fuck_, you know I do.” Quentin’s voice is accusatory, and Eliot grins at him, tugs a little on his wrists with telekinesis, just a reminder. Fingertips circle around the head of Quentin’s cock, holding it lightly between thumb and forefinger. It twitches, the slit winking open and drooling out a drop of pre-come, which makes something hot and _filthy_ twist low in Eliot’s groin.

“Yeah, baby,” Eliot purrs, fitting his hand around Quentin’s cock. “I do know.” Quentin’s cock fit so perfectly in his hand, tucked right into his palm. Eliot _loves_ it, smaller than his own but perfectly proportioned for Q, the exact right size for him. Rubbing his thumb just under the head makes Quentin swear a blue streak, back bowing and struggling against the bonds on his hands futility. Eliot grins, collects another little spurt of fluid to help ease the path of his hand.

“Can you–” Quentin starts, then seems to lose the thread of it a little as Eliot brings his other hand down to cup his balls, roll them gently up against his body. 

“What do you need, baby?” Eliot prompts, jerking Quentin off with a steady rhythm, slower than he might like but not torturously so. “Ask me, sweetheart, come on. Don’t I give you what you need?”

“Always do,” Quentin moans, head grinding back on the rock hard enough that suddenly Eliot’s worried it might be painful. “Even when I don’t know what– it is. _Eliot_, please, fuck. Will you kiss me? I want you to kiss me.”

“Of course,” Eliot agrees, feeling generous, magnanimous. He has to take the hand off Q’s balls to stay balanced, pressing it into the rock next to his head, but the kiss is sweet and hot and hungry. “Tell me when you think you’re gonna come, okay?”

Quentin nods, brow pinched together, and strains back up for Eliot’s mouth. It’s maybe not the most finessing kiss of Eliot’s life, focus split as it is between the magic binding Q’s wrists to the rock and the hand moving steadily on his needy cock. Quentin, for his part, emphatically does not seem to mind, no finesse in him either just– hot, open mouths, and hungry tongues and breath and lips and–

“_Eliot_,” Quentin sobs, “please, please, I’m going to,” and Eliot–

Pulls away. Lets go of the cock in his hand and draws away from the slick space of Quentin’s mouth and sits back on his heels. He watches with a kind of fascination as Quentin _sobs_, helpless, his cock jerking in needy, hungry pulses, unable to get the friction he needs to fall over the edge. 

“That’s it,” Eliot murmurs, petting his hands against Quentin’s sides, gentling him back from the edge. “That was a little mean of me, huh? Thank you, baby, we don’t have to do that again.”

“It’s–” Quentin starts, hips working helpless little circles and Eliot’snever, _ever_ going to want anything else other than this. “Just– You’ll let me, you’ll tell me– right? When I can? You’ll tell me.”

“Of course,” Eliot purrs, feeling– tender, all the way down, stripped raw and so fucking in love. “Want to do it again?”

A heartbeat of pause, and then Quentin’s nodding, eyes squeezedshut.

So Eliot takes him in hand again, so wet now it’s hard to get enough friction to begin with. But that’s fine, Quentin’s got to be so oversensitive that the glide is a blessing. There’s nothing in Eliot but his focus, anymore, Quentin’s hot cock in his hand and wrists under his magic, sweat-slick skin under his mouth. There’s _nothing_ but this, the rest of the world drops away as Eliot draws him back up again, to that dangling high and then

“_Eliot, Eliot_–”

Draws away. 

A slow trickle of tears leaks out of Q as he thrashes a little, straining against Eliot’s magic, against the weight of Eliot’s body over him. Eliot levers up, cupping Quentin’s head in both his hands, stroking his hair, the soft warm skin behind his years. “My beautiful sweet boy, you’re alright. Breathe, sweetheart.”

“_Eliot_,” Quentin repeats, like it’s the only word he knows. Eliot feels wild, hungry, so goddamn fucking proud. 

“That was a lot, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, petting the damp hair back of Quentin’s dear face. “That was a lot. You did so good. Do you want to come now?”

Quentin nods, nuzzling his face into Eliot’s wrist, nose dragging across the tender skin. “If you– tell me?”

“I’ll tell you,” Eliot promises, pressing a final kiss to Quentin’s worried brow, his damp cheeks, his soft, tender mouth. “I’ve got you baby, I promise.”

Quentin flinches like it hurts, this time, when Eliot touches his cock, so he stays gentle, so gentle. So fucking careful, this beautiful little thing is _his to take care of_, and he’s going to do that. Quentin’s still so close to the edge, it feels like it takes no time at all until he’s squirming, hips pressing up again and again into Eliot’s hand. 

“_Please_,” Q sobs, face screwed up with the very last threads of self-control, and–

Poor sweet boy, shouldn’t have to be in control of anything. “Come now, sweetheart,” he prompts, holding Q’s hips steady with one hand, working the length his cock with the other. He falls apart with a punched-out moan, shivering hard under Eliot’s hands. Eliot works him through it, murmuring praise and assurance, thoughtless affection tripping off his tongue.

He eases up on the magic on Quentin’s wrist and gets a quiet sound of protest in response. “No,” he begs, half-hearted. “You said you’d fuck my mouth.”

Which. _Fuck_. “I will, baby, if you still want.” Quentin nods eager, mouth falling open like it’s instinct, like he just _needs it_. “But I can’t– I’ll hold you with my hands, like I said.”

There’s a shuffle to rearrange, as Eliot crawls up Quentin’s body until his knees are tucked into Q’s shoulders and he can take himself in hand. With the other, he reaches up, gathers both of Quentin’s wrists into one hand. They barely fit, wide sturdy bone, but Eliot’s got a wide finger span. “I’m gonna get my other hand up there in a second, so– pinch me if you need to stop,” he breathes, half wild, because now that he’s letting himself feel his own need it’s practically all he can think about. Quentin nods minutely, tongue flickering out across his open, sweet mouth and Eliot’s gut clenches.

He watches, mesmerized, as he slowly feeds his cock into Quentin’s pretty pink lips. It’s a mark of _how much_ sex they’ve been having, exactly how much dick-sucking Quentin’s done recently, that they can even do this at all. That he can move his hand way, tangle it in Quentin’s fingers so he can pinch if he needs to and then just– _fuck_. Work the length of his dick into Quentin’s wet open mouth, push back just to the tight opening of his throat, and then ease off. 

It’s so much, it’s _so good_, and Eliot’s so worked up, he’s on edge in moments. He wants to drag it out, wants to spend _hours_ in Quentin’s wet mouth and his hot little ass and the silky skin on his inner thigh, wants to fuck him in every way they can manage, every imaginable way to wined two bodies together. But that might be a little too ambitious an undertaking for this moment, when Eliot’s nipples are tingling and his balls are drawing up, he’s so fucking close.

“_Q_,” he breathes out, it’s all he can get, before orgasm hits him like a truck, ripping out of him sharp and hot, breathless like laughter. 

Quentin’s got a streak of come running down his chin, when Eliot pulls back, looking a little dazed and tender around the mouth. Eliot falls to sit at his side, then pulls Q up with him, tucking him into the curve of his body so they can kiss, so Eliot can lick that stripe of come right off his skin. 

“How’s your throat?” Eliot murmurs, petting his fingers against the bump of Q’s adams apple. “Sore?”

“Not too bad,” Q replies, a little horse, nuzzling their faces together. “Been worse.” 

Eliot snorts, pressing another soft kiss to Quentin’s lips. The cottage feels a million miles away, all of a sudden, with nothing but bare rock and cool water to help him give comfort like he needs to. Pragmatism settles into him instead, because they need to get clean and they need to get home, because Q needs to nap somewhere more comfortably than a rock. 

Q’s quiet and a little sluggish, like his brain’s not firing on all thrusters, but he’s responsive when Eliot kisses him. His fingers curl sweetly at the base of Eliot’s throat and Eliot’s stupid, _stupid_ heart tries to climb right into Q’s hand.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, into the fragile air between them, and Quentin nods. 

The heat of the day has relented enough by the time they get back to the cottage that Eliot can light a fire in the grate without it feeling oppressive. His own skin feels a little chilly, and so does Quentin’s when Eliot touches him. 

“Should make dinner,” Quentin murmurs, clearly still a little sex-drunk and skin hungry, listing into Eliot’s side.

Maybe they should. Instead, they pile up blankets and quilts and pillows on the floor a few feet away from the fire, strip down to their skin and curl together. There’s some peaches sitting in a bowl on the table, and Eliot calls a couple of them over to him, along with paring knife and half a loaf of bread. 

Feeding slicing of peach to Q directly from his fingertips, tangled together in a soft little nest, Eliot murmurs “did I push you too hard?” because it’s itching at him like fear, and he has to check.

Quentin, quiet and thoughtful and relaxed in the way he only gets in these moments, props his chin on Eliot’s chest. His arm lays curled around Eliot, skin bathed in golden light. “No,” he whispers, soft and safe between them in the little bubble of their home. “You pushed me just enough. I still don’t–” a soft, self-depreciating laugh, as he looks away, then back. “I don’t know how you keep _knowing_, but you do.”

_Oh my love, I know nothing at all_, Eliot thinks, and holds out another slice of peach. Quentin’s lips brush his fingers like a kiss when he takes it, and then follow for a real kiss, intentional and sure, to the back of Eliot’s knuckles, the tender palm of his hand. The fire behind him glows like a halo, lighting up the soft curtains of his hair so they glow.

“Thanks for letting me,” he gets out, hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. It gets harder still when Quentin hums, presses a kiss to the center of Eliot’s chest.

“Always,” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut.

It hovers in the air between them, a promise that Eliot can’t quite touch. He pets his palm over Quentin’s back instead, and lets himself relax.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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